


iuxtare

by dakeyras



Series: Naruto Fantasy Week 2020 Oneshots [7]
Category: Naruto
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Awkward Romance, F/M, First Crush, Gaara Does Stupid Stuff To Impress A Girl, Jousting, Knights - Freeform, Less Romantic More Cute, Naruto Fantasy Week, Romance, Sunagakure | Hidden Sand Village
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-07
Updated: 2020-07-07
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:27:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25125409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dakeyras/pseuds/dakeyras
Summary: Gaara nods at the appropriate moments, but his attention is elsewhere.Riding in an open carriage is the most word-fumblingly beautiful woman in the world. Her hair is a river of gold, the dimples on her cheeks could make a dead man weep with joy. Her feathery turquoise-and-silver gown brings to mind airy forests, and bright streams plunging into deep pools of mirror-smooth darkness.Gaara doesn’t care about her. His eyes are fixed on the second woman in the carriage – more of a girl, really. She has a bandage on one hand, covering a scraped palm, and her fringe is held back with a sweat-stained strip of leather. Her nose is turned up at the tip, just the tiniest amount, and the slightest dark smudges under her eyes show she hasn’t slept so well. Oh, and she has pink hair.
Relationships: Gaara/Haruno Sakura
Series: Naruto Fantasy Week 2020 Oneshots [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1809535
Comments: 8
Kudos: 44
Collections: Naruto Fantasy Week 2020





	iuxtare

**Author's Note:**

> For Naruto Fantasy Week 2020: Prompt is 'Knights, Dragons and Druids'
> 
> Each submission I'm making has a different setting, style and genre.

Jousting is derived from Old French _joster_ , ultimately from Latin _iuxtare_ "to approach, to meet".

-O-

The royal family of the Empire of Sand watch the parade from the palace balcony. Pennants snap like angry dogs at the tips of the knights’ lances. Silver rank upon silver rank ride past, banners proud and true, and Gaara knows that no force on Earth can stand against them.

“Papa, when can I become a knight?” he asks. His father, the King of the Winds, ignores him with practiced ease.

The City of Sand is holding its annual joust, and just like last year and the year before, Gaara isn’t allowed to take part. He’s worked really hard this time; he rode his horse back and forth on the empty field all year, and practiced holding a broom handle steady, and put an upside-down pot on his head to get used to wearing a helmet. Some of the other boys his age are squires already.

Gaara is short for his age, true, but he still wants to be allowed to take part. It would only be fair. And now his hopes have been dashed again.

“Are you excited for the magic show?” Temari prompts, and Gaara manages a weak smile. “Kankuro is showing off his animation spells this year. He’s been working on the performance in secret for months now, so even _I_ don’t know what will happen!”

Temari sounds a bit cross about that, so Gaara tries to distract her. “Who’s that?” he asks, pointing at a slender figure riding at the front of a squad of dark-haired, dark-eyed elves. They have red flames embroidered on their navy shirts.

“That’s the Weasel Prince, come from the far-off City of Leaves,” Temari says. She launches into a geopolitical explanation of why an elven forest kingdom is taking part in a foreign joust, and Gaara nods at the appropriate moments, but his attention is elsewhere.

Riding in an open carriage is the most word-fumblingly beautiful woman in the world. Her hair is a river of gold, the dimples on her cheeks could make a dead man weep with joy. Her feathery turquoise-and-silver gown brings to mind airy forests, and bright streams plunging into deep pools of mirror-smooth darkness.

Gaara doesn’t care about her. His eyes are fixed on the second woman in the carriage – more of a girl, really. She has a bandage on one hand, covering a scraped palm, and her fringe is held back with a sweat-stained strip of leather. Her nose is turned up at the tip, just the tiniest amount, and the slightest dark smudges under her eyes show she hasn’t slept so well. Oh, and she has pink hair.

“Who is she?” he asks his sister. Temari pauses the torrent of words and looks to see where he’s (discreetly, very discreetly – he doesn’t want anyone to notice) pointing.

“That’s the Lady Tsunade, a famous healer from far-off lands.”

“Isn’t she a bit young?” Gaara asks, confused.

Temari laughs. “Oh, you mean her apprentice? I don’t know what she’s called, but maybe you can go introduce yourself later.”

That sounds both wonderful and terrible. Gaara fidgets, but eventually nods. “I’d like that.”

The Welcome Feast is that evening, and Gaara is forced to sit at the head table. He makes polite small-talk with the sons of dukes and earls and barons, but his eyes keep roving to the speck of pink at the other end of the hall, where Tsunade’s apprentice is talking to some of the elves, arms waving wildly as she tells a story.

The Farewell Feast is a much less formal affair, and he knows he will be able to sit with her then, but it’s a whole week away. And he doesn’t want to meet her only to have to say goodbye again the next day. He’s overheard a comment by one of the knights; Lady Tsunade is treating the injured after tomorrow’s joust. Maybe Gaara can visit the injured knights and get a chance to introduce himself.

Mind made up, he excuses himself from the festivities early, pleading an upset stomach.

She’s not the only pretty girl Gaara’s ever seen. But she’s the first to look like she goes out and gets her hands dirty. What kinds of stories might she be able to tell?

The next day is dry and cold, perfect for riding in full plate armour. The knights are already warming up as Gaara puts on his finery and is whisked off to the viewing area.

Jousting is the reason so many knights and their entourages have come from far and wide, but it’s not the only entertainment on offer. Thousands of city-dwellers are crammed into the stands, watching as a pair of elven fire-breathers perform tricks. The Weasel Prince puts on a splendid performance when he duels six of his guard at once, their rapiers flashing in the sunlight. There are jugglers and jesters, runners and wrestlers, and then Gaara sees Kankuro for the first time in two weeks.

He’s wearing a wide-brimmed pointy hat and long flowing robes, with mystical lines daubed onto his face. Behind him, assistants wheel out a dozen suits of armour. They range in size from a heavy set of plate that three men wouldn’t fill, to a light outfit that’s only slightly too big for Gaara.

“Behold!” Kankuro shouts. He’s been practicing that shout for _months_ , and father made him move his training area to the dungeons so they can’t hear it through the walls at 3am. “I am here to show the great magical traditions of the City of Winds!”

Gaara watches as Kankuro marches the smallest suit of armour up and down, fingers twisting and curling through excruciating poses as he manipulates the animation spells. He’s impressed, he has to admit. Kankuro works his way through the different-sized suits of armour, parading each one back and forth, until only the biggest one is left.

The stands are quiet as everyone is absorbed by the spectacle. Kankuro succeeds in getting the big suit of armour to stand up, but then it charges at him! He makes another two suits jump in the way and they battle back and forth for a good minute, before they all collapse, sending pieces of metal scattering for a dozen yards.

As Kankuro clambers over the wreckage, the audience cheers and claps. He grins as he sweeps into a low bow. Gaara joins the applause, and out of the corner of his eye he sees Lady Tsunade’s apprentice do the same. She’s just entered one of the lower boxes, and in the break before the knights appear, Gaara sneaks away to go see her. He’s unsure what he’ll ask her, but he really wants to hear her answers.

It’s easy enough to slip past the guards, focused as they are on the field. Gaara makes his way down a level, where the fancy-but-not-too-fancy guests are given space. Two burly men-at-arms throw quizzical looks his way as he squeezes past them in the tight corridor, but then he’s outside the room, _her_ room.

Gaara is a brave boy, and he will be a brave knight, so he stills his trembling hands and calms his beating heart and pushes the door open.

Face burning, he apologises and leaves again, then hurries to the next door down. He’d gotten the wrong viewing box and walked in on two Sand nobles sharing an intimate meal together. At least the embarrassment means he doesn’t linger outside the _right_ door. He pushes it open and steps in.

“Hello?” the girl says. “I wasn’t expecting anyone to join me. What’s your name?”

Gaara’s tongue-tied. He stares at her for a second. “...Gaara,” he forces out eventually, barely audible over the noise of the crowd.

“Nice to meet you, Gaara! I’m Sakura. Are you from around here?” Her voice is soft and lilting, and her green eyes sparkle in the sunlight. She’s taller than he thought she would be, and a little bit older; he guesses she has a foot of height and four years of age advantage over him.

 _Sakura_. It’s a beautiful name. Gaara remembers that she asked him a question. “Yes?” he replies; it sounds rather uncertain.

She laughs, and it’s nothing like the ladies at court laugh, all refined little tinkling giggles behind raised fans. Sakura brays like she’s heard a fantastic joke and she wants to share it with the world.

There’s a knock at the door and Gaara panics. It might be his father’s guards, come to see where their prince has scurried off to this time. He doesn’t want Sakura’s only impression of him today to be of a confused fool. Frantic, he searches for a hiding spot.

“Are you not supposed to be here?” Sakura whispers, and he nods. “Okay, I’ll help,” she says, and pushes him – _pushes_ him – onto the floor behind the seating bench.

“May we come in?” a voice calls from outside, and without waiting for an answer, the door is opened. Gaara can’t see what’s happening, but the guards leave again when Sakura tells them she’s alone in the box and she hasn’t seen anyone in the last ten minutes.

Gaara crawls out again. “Thanks for that. I hope you don’t get into trouble.”

She laughs that open and inviting laugh again, as though she wants the whole crowd to laugh with her. Gaara finds himself joining in, although he doesn’t know why. “I’ll be fine. I’m allowed guests. Besides, you’re cute, so I’m sure nobody will mind you sneaking in.”

The first pair of knights are preparing to open the jousting. The rest of today and all of tomorrow will be spent on the preliminary rounds, then there’s two days’ break for the knights to recover. Entertainment and various peasant competitions mean that the show will still go on. Then there’s another two days for the most exciting knightly contests – more jousting, but also duels, a grand melee and a mock battle between two small armies.

The last day is the least important but most exciting, by Gaara’s reckoning. The squires have wrestling matches, duelling with swords and maces, and then there’s the capstone of the whole event. The squires’ melee is a brutal slugfest where a hundred-odd young men and women walk onto the field below, and the fight goes on until only the champion is left standing. It’s not uncommon for the Farewell Feast to have half the attendees of the Welcome Feast, and the infirmary to overflow into the hallways.

Gaara’s been sitting in silence for too long to start a conversation now, but that’s alright. The knights are at the lists, strapping their shields on. It’s about to begin – the crowd is reaching a fever pitch. Sakura is perched on the very edge of the bench.

The horses trot – canter – gallop – with a crash that could shake the heavens, the knights meet, and are both hurled clear out of the saddle. The crowd roars its approval, and Gaara is standing and cheering as well. Too late, he looks at the royal box and meets his father’s eyes. Raza gestures and four guards leave, no doubt coming to fetch him.

Perhaps it would have been smarter to stay sat down and hidden, but looking at Sakura’s shining face beside him, Gaara doesn’t regret getting caught up in the moment. “I’ll find you again when I can,” he says, shouting to be heard over the noise of the stands, and slips out the door before she can say anything. The guards are already outside; they must have moved fast to get here so soon. They don’t say anything, and neither does he, as he traipses back to the royal viewing box.

It’s time to face the music. Raza is not known for tolerating youthful hijinks. Gaara steels himself and walks in, taking his seat. Any moment now, the criticisms will begin.

“Don’t worry, you’re not in trouble. I just wasn’t expecting you to go chasing girls yet.” Gaara’s father smiles at him for the first time that week.

They watch the next joust in silence, because Gaara has no idea how to respond to that. It’s disappointing – neither knight’s lance finds its mark on either the first or the second pass. On the third tilt, a glancing blow is enough to unseat the unlucky loser, whose foot becomes tangled in his stirrups. His horse drags him the length of the field before he’s able to get loose. It sounds like a sack of empty tin cans falling down the stairs.

“Next year you’ll be out on that field, son. Keep a close eye on the knights who ride today – you can choose one of them to take you on as a squire, after the tourney is over.” Raza of the Winds ruffles his son’s hair, the gesture awkward but still appreciated.

Most of the knights are mediocre, but Gaara spots a few men and women with uncommon success. A joust challenges horsemanship over all other skills, he knows, so the winning knights have already proven their ability to ride. He looks for anyone who seems comfortable handling their weapons, and gets Temari to write down some names for later.

With Raza nearby and for once paying attention to his youngest son, Gaara doesn’t want to be caught staring at Sakura. He can’t help the occasional peek, though.

After one particularly exciting clash, where one knight is unhorsed and the other has his helmet torn off, Sakura looks… entranced? She’s staring at the barefaced knight, and Gaara doesn’t like the look on her face, not one bit.

He goes to bed dreaming of victory, his banner waving brightly, his foot planted on the chest of the knight.

The next day, she’s not there. Gaara spends all day fretting. Perhaps she’s had to leave early? What if she’s ill, or injured, or – dead? At dinner, he overhears some distant cousin or other who’d taken a nasty fall that day. The cousin was healed by Lady Tsunade, and he mentions that her apprentice was in the room as well, helping out. Gaara is relieved, but also angry. He can’t help but think it’s her fault for him feeling so rotten. Knowing how unfair he’s being doesn’t calm him down, either.

As the tourney progresses, he can’t find another chance to meet with her, whether alone or not. The knights are magnificent, and the other shows on the knights’ two rest days are almost as good. Temari shows off by winning the archery tournament, as well as the youth wrestling, under an assumed name. She keeps a mask on until the standings are announced, then basks in the adulation of the crowd.

Raza is quietly furious but under the anger, Gaara can see a glimmer of respect. When Temari returns to the royal box afterwards, face gleaming with sweat and glory, he places the two medals she’s earned around her neck. Then he lays into her, telling her that of all the irresponsible things she could do, does she have any idea how dangerous it is, what would her mother think if she were here to see this, and on and on. Temari doesn’t seem cowed, though. Gaara is sometimes jealous of how headstrong and confident his sister is. If he had half her courage–

The last two days of knightly competition are fierce. There’s lots of prize money at stake, as well as fame and glory. Gaara sees blood and teeth spilled, armour sundered, and bones broken. At last it’s over. Now that their duties to their knights are discharged, the squires proceed to get drunk, gamble, play silly games and the like. Normally Gaara would join in, and take advantage of the one evening where he’s just another face in the crowds of youths.

But he has other plans.

Sakura is busy healing the day’s injuries, but tomorrow she will be watching the fights again. If he can’t have the evening with her, he’ll have to impress her some other way.

Kankuro locked his magic equipment away, but the suits of armour are still in his workshop. Who would want to take them, after all?

Gaara begs off from viewing the last day of the tourney, pleading a delicate stomach. Raza frowns, but allows it. Once he’s alone in his room, though, rest is the last thing on Gaara’s mind. Donning the suit of armour – which spent the night under his bed – he races down the stairs, scattering servants ahead of him like a gaggle of geese.

“Where do I go for the squires’ fight?” he asks one of the footmen at the lists. “I woke up late and my master is still drunk.”

Armed with directions, he alternately bluffs and sneaks his way into the next competition. Whatever the challenge, he will win, and claim glory everlasting just like Temari. Despite the dents and scrapes on his armour, Gaara fits in quite nicely – lots of the squires have scrapped already today and are battered and muddy. He swipes a wooden cudgel from one of the weapon racks, but forgoes a shield. He’s not big enough to carry a shield and club at the same time.

The squires file out onto the field and a wall of sound almost sweeps Gaara off his feet. He spots a speck of pink in the stands and almost misses the blast of a hunting horn that signals the start of the bout. It’s only when he sees the frantic free-for-all that he realises he’s entered the squires’ grand melee.

Everyone seems so tall, all of a sudden. The shortest squire has half a foot’s advantage, and Gaara feels a quiver of fear race from his stomach to his throat and then all the way down to his boots. Then he snarls, shakes his head, and stomps towards the thickest fighting. He’s here to win, and to prove himself to his family and to Sakura.

It’s easy to bring his club over in a two-handed swing and catch a distracted boy across the helmet. He falls, and doesn’t get up again. Gaara shoulder-checks the next armour-clad form and sends a girl sprawling in the dirt, easy prey for his follow-up swing.

Two felled by his hand, and as he looks around, Gaara sees that half the squires are lying down or being stretchered away. He can hear the blood in his ears, drowning out every other sound.

A giant’s fist smashes into his back and he crumples. Curled up on the ground, armour mangled, he sees the squire who struck him. The man is wading into the thick of the fray and is soon lost amidst the flurry of fists and feet – there’s not enough room to swing a club.

Gaara is hurting worse than he’s ever hurt before. A part of him wonders if this is what dying feels like. Two medics roll him onto a stretcher and he’s taken to a tent where his armour is cut off. As the breastplate is wrenched free, the pain is too much, and he falls into the blissful dark.

Waking up is an unpleasant process, spread over several minutes. Gaara becomes aware of each part of his body in descending order of pain. First there’s his back, where a dinner-plate-sized patch throbs in time with his heartbeat. Then he feels his knees, protesting from hauling so much metal around, lingering little stabs that bloom anew every time he tries to move. Lastly the pounding in his forehead surprises him, and it’s only when he notices his parched throat that the headache makes sense.

Gaara forces his eyes open. The infirmary is dim, and full of other prone figures. He’s on one of the beds. Healers are doing their rounds, tending to the most vocal patients. The sharp smell of burnt thyme is in the air, as well as traces of other herbs, coming from a brazier in the corner.

“It promotes healing,” a soft voice to his left explains. With great effort he turns his head and sees Sakura sitting at his bedside. “Lady Tsunade is still working. I didn’t want to go to the Farewell Feast on my own.”

“Thanks,” Gaara says, and it comes out raspy and horrible. She wordlessly hands him a glass of water, and when his fingers don’t want to take it, she holds it to his lips.

“I had no idea you were royalty.”

Gaara’s throat is a little better now. “Are you impressed?” he asks. He keeps his voice low so the squires convalescing around him can’t listen in.

“Shocked, more like. And I have no idea why you snuck into a brawl full of bigger and older fighters. You don’t have anything to prove, and you don’t need the prize money.” Sakura frowns, disapproving now. “Was it just about fighting for the sake of fighting?”

“I… don’t have anything to prove?” Gaara chokes out, incredulous. “Look at me! I’m young, I’m small. My brother is a great wizard and my sister is a great warrior; what is left for me to achieve?”

Sakura considers that for a moment. “I keep hearing that you’re the de facto heir to the throne. Neither of your siblings want the job, after all. Isn’t Emperor of the Winds enough fame to be getting on with?”

“That’s a job, not something I’ve earned. The reason I’m the heir, as you said, is that my family doesn't want it. And I would be crowned when my father dies, which is hopefully a long time from now.” Gaara feels the words spill out, and as the bitterness crosses his lips a tight knot in his chest starts to loosen. “Once I’m Emperor, my life will become a copy of my father’s. Duty above all. Anything I want to do _for me_ , I have to do now, while I’m young.”

Sakura holds the glass out for him again. He drinks some more, and feels a coolness spread through his body; whatever’s in there isn’t water. His injuries are already less painful.

“Emperors don’t have friends, they have allies. Achievements belong to the country, not the ruler. A hundred years from now, will there be any trace of _me?_ ” And with that, the big question is out. It feels freeing.

“A hundred years from now, they’ll talk about the tourney where a prince stole some ill-fitting armour, crept into a melee and downed two bigger, stronger foes. Actually, by that point the tale will be that you beat up a hundred enemies by yourself – that’s how stories grow. And everyone else in that fight will be forgotten.” Sakura holds up a leather-bound journal. “I like to keep notes about important happenings, and the only name I’ve written down for today is yours.”

“So what if I don’t fade into the annals of history. Nobody will remember me for me, no matter what happens.”

“Nobody will be remembered, not in the way you want. How much do you know about your great-grandfather? What about anyone else from his time? What was his favourite food? Did he like to wear a specific colour?” Sakura smiles mischievously. “Who did he love?”

“I must seem like a child to you,” Gaara says, feeling much better. It’s the first time he’s confided in someone like this. “Or at least, full of childish thoughts.”

Sakura laughs her improper laugh again. A wounded man moans nearby and she looks guilty for a second. “We’re _both_ still children, aren’t we? Perhaps that’s not something to give up without a fight.”

“Perhaps,” Gaara concedes. “But I still want to go out and have adventures, and become a brave knight while I can.”

Sakura is about to reply when Lady Tsunade enters the infirmary, and all the healers snap to attention. “Come, Sakura, we must pack for tomorrow,” she orders. Sakura nods and starts gathering her things.

“Do you have to go?” Gaara asks in a small voice.

Sakura places a gentle hand on his cheek. “I promise I’ll come back next year. You can tell me all about the adventures you’ll have had by then.” She leans forward and kisses him on the forehead.

Gaara feels a red-hot flush creep across his face. He stammers out a goodbye, then hears her honest laughter one more time as she walks out of the infirmary.

Alone in the gloom, he presses a finger to the kiss mark, and a true smile spreads across his face.

**Author's Note:**

> And that's a wrap! I had a great time writing all these different short stories, although for a lot of them I'd have been happier going for something longer. There's an art to being concise, I suppose.
> 
> If you enjoyed reading some Fantasy Naruto stories, check out the rest of the great one-shots in the Naruto Fantasy Week 2020 collection!


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